So I Don't Ever Have To Leave
by coloursflyaway
Summary: Everything is dark and a small part of Loki's mind is thinking about revenge.


Everything is dark and a small part of Loki's mind is thinking about revenge. It's only for a moment, one breath in a thousand and yet it is enough to see it in front of him clearly: The faces of Thor's new friends -the woman's fiery hair, the arrogant smile on the lips of the mortal in his metal suit, the pretence of righteousness the one they called Captain always seemed to wear- all twisted and screaming in pain, pleading as Loki tears them apart, separates limb from limb, joint from joint. Almost, he can hear their screams too, ringing sweetly in his ears.

But it's only a moment, one breath in a thousand and as soon as it's over, the rest of his brain sets in, smothering every last bit of the fantasy, horrified. Because he is not allowed to think like this, not now, not ever again because Thor will know. Thor always, always knows.  
A violent shiver wrecks through Loki's too thin, too broken frame, because he knows what this one second of weakness could mean. Thor will be disappointed, will have every right to be because Loki is still not good enough, never good enough, no matter how kind, how forgiving his brother is. For Thor is all that and more, the only one who ever stood up for him in court, the one who fought with the All-father day and night to give Loki another chance.  
Thor has told him the story countless times, whenever his disgusting old self reared its ugly head again, causing him to forsake the love he holds for his brother, his protector, his king. He knows it all, how Odin wanted his lips sewn shut and him bound in a cave to suffer until Ragnarök would come and finally grant him peace; how Thor rose in front of all of Asgard and declared he would fight for Loki, who he still called brother even after all he had done, even if it would cost his own life. How the All-father, cruel and foolish, had declared he would have to and how Thor had slain every single one, man or woman, who had dared to try and stop him as he made his way up to his Odin's throne. How Thor had raised Mjölnir over his head and brought it down to turn his own father's head into a bloody pulp.

And all of it, Thor repeats each and every time, all of it for Loki, to keep him safe. Because Loki is still the one who holds his heart, no matter how often he has already broken it.  
He knows the story and yet it does not change that even his brother's patience, his love will wear thin one day if the only thing he does is test and stretch and tease it further. So he can't disappoint Thor, not again, but no matter how much his mind searches for something to hide behind, to redeem himself with, something which will show the thunderer that he is trying, but there is nothing. For he can't see, can't hear and his thoughts won't be enough, his magic long since bound and faded.

It's still dark, because it's always dark and Loki shivers as he curls up on the floor which could be freezing, burning or covered with shards of glass without him noticing. He can still remember when Thor first brought him here, brought him to Asgard (_home_, Loki reminds himself, his brother wants him to call it _home_) and how he was back then, arrogant and foolish, proud and oh so lost without Thor to guide him. He had snarled under the muzzle the thunderer had him put on, seething under his pretence of nonchalance as he had felt the eyes of the court on him.  
Back then, he hadn't had the control over his thoughts he has now and so he killed Asgard's entire population over and over again in his mind, had Odin and even Thor on their knees, pleading for their lives.  
He never spared them.

Loki hesitates, curling up tighter. Maybe it hurts, the way his spine is bent, but he has long since stopped worrying about such petty things because pain is just nerves firing off impulses which lead nowhere but vanish into thin air as they try and try to make it to his brain.  
The next memory is a special one, one he only permits himself thinking of when he can't stand it anymore, when his fingers are itching with the need to just tear open his throat with his nails because everything would be better than this. Because maybe it'll stop working one day, maybe he'll use it up somehow and be left here without even this little relief. He breathes in and out again, before he allows himself just the smallest taste.

Odin has never been a merciful king, but a just one and so Loki, though he might have been a prince once, received the same punishment as any would have, his wrists shackled to the floor, leaving him completely defenceless against the pain.  
And oh, what pain it had been, sweet and delicious, the sharp sting of the whip, the slow burn of heated iron, the dull ache of the guards' fists and boots and a thousand things more. Loki's favourite memory though, the one he keeps hidden in the most secluded corner of his mind, is the noise his fingers made when they were broken over and over again, leaving the bones in splinters.

Sometimes he catches himself wishing Thor had been too late to save him when they had come with their needles and threads to sew his lying mouth shut, because he can only imagine how terrible and what a relief the pain would have been. Maybe they even would have heated up the needle, getting it white-hot before starting to stitch and the thought alone makes his mind grow dizzy with need.

But Thor came and at first it had been such a relief Loki hadn't been able to keep the tears from staining his face as his brother untied him, Thor himself still covered in his father's blood, pieces of bone stuck in his golden hair. He had taken Loki away, first to the healers who had fixed whatever was left of his thin body until there were only scars and crooked fingers to remind him of the All-father's mercy.  
Why he had thought that Thor would let him go unpunished in the first place, Loki will never know and most likely never understand either, for how could he ever think his brother, his wise, perfect, golden brother would let a creature as wretched and wicked as himself go free?  
But he did nonetheless, only to find all of his hopes crushed when the guards fetched him, taking him down to the cells instead of his quarters. He had sworn revenge that day and he was filled with the image of Thor in front of him, looking up at the life slowly seeped out of him for what felt like millennia. And all that for a punishment which Loki would now have killed as well as died for.

The cell had been the same, small if compared to a prince's quarters but equipped with all things necessary: A bed, chairs and a table, a closet to hold a few simple garments, a small bathing room. But there was no light.  
The darkness was not of the kind your eyes got used to after a few minutes or hours; it was eternal, no shadow, nothing, as if the whole of Asgard had blinked and forgotten to open her eyes again. Loki had raged, had torn his clothing and broken the chairs, the splintering wood digging into his hands, leaving them bloody and aching. It had went like this for what Thor had later told him had been three days, even if they felt like a month. Only then had the thunderer sent guards to fetch him, guiding him to the throne room, where Asgard's former prince was now king, sitting on the throne he had taken from his father. And Loki had spat in his face, thrashed against the guards holding him down and screamed things which, looking back, hurt. And Thor…  
His beautiful, kind, patient brother had only stood there, taking the abuse. Had looked at Loki the whole time, his gaze never faltering and waited for him to finish. When he had, chest heaving and eyes wild and crazed, Thor had stepped forward, placing a hand on his jaw and brushing the pad of his thumb over his cheekbone.

'I'm sorry, brother', he had whispered, and Loki hadn't understood, not until the other had nodded, just a small jerk of his head and suddenly, there had been no touch anymore. Thor's hand had still been in place, his thumb continuing its motion, but it didn't rouse any reaction anymore, his skin gone numb, just as his mind. When the guards had dragged him back this time, he hadn't had any strength left to fight.

He had heard of spells like this before, of course he had, which would dull the nerve endings until not even the point of a blade could stimulate them, designed for battles, to create soldiers unafraid of pain since they could not feel any, not as means of punishment. And for a little while, he had laughed at his brother, at his weakness and dull wit, thinking that if pain had not brought him to his knees, the lack of it surely wouldn't either; but in the end it had taken only a few hours to prove otherwise, his whole being reduced to smell and taste, and the few sounds he could produce himself; a sensation of being trapped, buried alive.

The same night, he had broken each of his fingers again without noticing, clawing and scratching at the walls, the door, pounding his numb hands, his head, his feet against the floor, desperate to _feel_ but never succeeding. And yet, when the guards had come back to get him to the healers once more, he had only lunged at one of them, nearly clawing his eyes out with numb, crooked fingers.  
As soon as he had been stitched up again, three more scars to go along with the others, Thor had made them take away his sense of smell.  
It had been less maddening, not one part of Loki missing the stale, damp odour of his cell and yet, it had grown just as torturous as time had passed, his whole world dulled once more as he had laid down on his bed, burying his face in the pillow whose presence he had only been able to detect by the way his head did not rest on the same level as the rest of his body.  
And yet he had been far from broken, had thought up plans as he had lain in the darkness, had listened to the beat of his own heart as he thought about crushing Thor's. There had been a thousand different ways, but they all failed and before the end of the week, Thor had been forced to take away his hearing.

Loki himself can't remember it, but his brother had told him once that, deaf and blind and numb, he had screamed until the sun had long since risen, frightening children and women alike until he had passed out in his cell, a small mercy for both Asgard and the trickster himself.

And he had been good, for a while at least, until Thor had been convinced he had changed; all pleased smiles and gentle touches when he had let him out of his cell for an hour or two. He had been brought the throne room, had listened to Thor's voice while eating the few, richly flavoured foods he had been offered, taking in the light and imagining himself on the throne instead of his brother.  
Somehow he had kept up the pretence until the guards attempted to bring him back to his cell, attacking them as soon as they had left the throne room, desperate to at least get away from the darkness, if he had no access to the rest of his senses. For, no matter how hard he had tried to fight it, he was crumbling and his resolve with him, his every fantasy losing its appeal as it grew harder and harder to recall how it was to hear, to feel.  
Thor had taken his privilege of food and drink as punishment, instead choosing to keep him nourished through a spell. And finally, it had been too much.

The deprivation had driven Loki mad with want, his nails constantly raking over his body, his lips bloodied from where he had bitten at them, his fingers torn open by teeth, desperate to at least get the taste of blood, if there was no other sensation left. He had spent what felt like a lifetime in his cell, sleeping and waking in irregular intervals, nibbling at his fingers, his arms when he was awake, before the thunderer had called for him again, a gasp of horror escaping his lips as he set eyes upon Loki.  
It was only then that the trickster looked down at himself, until then too overwhelmed to see again. The terror in Thor's eyes was nothing less than justified, for, in the time he had spent in the cell, Loki had gnawed off four of his ten fingers down to the bone, the rest of them dripping blood, bite marks clearly visible on whatever remained of the flesh.

He had been sent to the healers right away this time, but even they were unable to restore what damage his teeth had caused, leaving his hands looking more fit for a corpse than a living man. Loki was still staring down at them as the guards dragged him back to the throne room and right there, without a second more to waste, Thor took his sense of taste as well.

In hindsight, Loki can see so clearly why his brother acted this way, wants to thank him a thousand times for it, but back in then, his whole world had crumbled. For as soon as he was back in the cell, there would be nothing left. Not one sense, nothing but his own thoughts, like falling through the void all over again. And so he had run for one last time, the desperation giving him the strength to kill two of the guards before the others had had a chance to catch him, wrestling him down to the ground.  
It had been that exact moment that Loki broke.

It happened faster than he would have ever have thought possible, no long, excruciating pain, no fight, nothing. Only the clear, cold realisation, the knowledge that he had used up every of his options, had reached the end of his rope.  
For the first time in his life, pinned to the ground by men ten times stronger than himself, robbed of every sense except his sight, his fingers destroyed and broken, he was truly helpless.  
The guards must have noticed, must have wondered why their prisoner suddenly went limp and pliant under them, nothing more than an oversized rag doll, unable or unwilling to move on his own accord, but Loki did not have a thought left to spare for them. Numb and defeated, he kept his eyes open the entire time, desperate to take in as much light as possible, the colours, the shapes. He had killed, had disobeyed Thor in worse ways than ever before and he could only guess what the consequences of that would be.

It took six months until he was allowed to see again, Thor would tell him later, but it had felt much longer, like an eternity.  
With the taste buds on his tongue numbed, there had been nothing left. He was being kept alive by spells alone, otherwise he would have withered in the matter of days, every will to live stripped from him. Most time, he had not known if he was lying down or standing, if his eyes were opened or closed, his lips dry or wet and none of that had mattered, either. After a while it had even become impossible to tell if he was awake or sleeping, his thoughts wandering freely through whatever memories he had, his mind cutting them open and looking at their source, fitting them together in new, horrifying ways and orders. And it had hurt, ached in ways Loki had never known before. Later, Thor would tell him how he had screamed at first, screamed and cried and wept, but still Loki cannot remember it, no matter how much he tries.

Time passed until even his memories of being able to feel were fading, the sound of swords kissing in middle of a battle, the taste of blood and wine, the colour green, all growing fuzzy the more he tried to remember them.  
Once, Loki remembers, he had tried to take his own life in a last attempt to stop the hell he had been submitted to, clawing and ripping at some part of his body, but it had been impossible when he could barely even distinguish between his hands and feet. He still bears the scar, though, a large, uneven patch of skin on his left side.

And then, one day after Loki had wished for sweet, gentle death a thousand times, Thor had come.  
It is his favourite memory still, better than the ones he still has of the days of their shared childhood, better even than those of Odin's torturers, the door to his cell opening all of a sudden.  
At first, Loki had thought his prayers had finally been granted, that Hela had come to take him away to her realm, his beloved daughter who he could not bear to be parted from for another second; the golden light flooding the small room too good, too merciful to be anything else. But then, after several blissful minutes, his eyes had started to adjust to the unexpected brightness and he had recognized Thor, standing in the doorway, just as golden, as perfect as the light itself.  
His saviour.

There had never in his whole life been a moment in which Loki had _loved_ more, his whole body, his whole existence filled with nothing more than devotion and adoration for the man in front of him.  
And nothing else had mattered, nothing but his need to please the thunderer, give him whatever he needed, do whatever he asked Loki to. For Thor was merciful, otherwise he had left him in his dark hell to rot, and he could not disappoint his brother's faith, his compassion, not now, not ever; and suddenly, the trickster couldn't understand how he had been so blind for so long.  
With weak knees and tears streaming down his face freely –his brother had told him afterwards, for Loki had not noticed anything in that very moment- he had stood up from the ground, wanting to run towards his brother and beg his forgiveness and yet not managing more than slow, awkward steps. When he finally fell down in front of the other, Thor's hands had been there to catch him.  
And he could feel them.

There were callouses on the strong fingers, the trimmed nails digging slightly into his flesh, the palms warm against his skin and Loki had never felt anything more beautiful in his life.  
For a long moment, he could not move, could not breathe, could do nothing but stare up at the other, eyes overflowing with tears and blurring his vision, yet not able to block out Thor's pained but gentle smile. Shaking like a leaf, his every movement torturously slow, he had reached out and touched a damaged, disgusting hand to Thor's face, feeling the stubble under his fingertips, the sharp line of his brother's jaw. Almost, he could feel the blood rushing under his skin.

The thunderer had lowered him onto the ground gently, even though Loki could not feel a thing except for Thor's hands, wrapping strong arms around him and pulling him close. There were no words to describe it, none, for suddenly there was a body next to him, one he could feel and smell, the scent of his brother's skin better than any perfume or flower he had ever known. Muscles were flexing under his touch, fabric and fine hair brushing over his barely covered flesh, every sensation as exciting and exquisite as the last one.

Thor had held him for what felt like a lifetime and still only a mere moment before pulling back slightly, ignoring how Loki reached out and clung to him, to his garments, suddenly terrified that the thunderer would push him back into the darkness and leave him again. But he had done no such things, only had held him steady so he could study the trickster's face, as if searching for a sign for something Loki did not possess.  
Thor's expression had softened with pain and he had wanted nothing but to brush it away, but did not dare to try all the same.  
'Loki…. Brother', Thor had said softly and he had felt the vibrations where his hands were still resting against the other's chest, but even more importantly, he had heard them. The thunderer's voice was deep and rumbling, like thunder and gravel, gentle and broken and nothing Loki had ever heard, before or afterwards, could compare to it.  
And he had wept, sobs wrecking his body, tears blurring his vision until Thor's face melted away and became one with the golden light still surrounding him. He hadn't cried like this since he had been a boy, scared of warriors and thunder and being left alone, but it hadn't mattered. Nothing had mattered as long as Thor granted him his senses, allowed him to see and feel and hear.

How long they had stayed like this, Loki still doesn't know, but it was then that Thor had started to explain what the trickster had presumed and yet never known.  
It was punishment, that much had always been clear, but if Loki was good, he'd get his senses back, one by one. Maybe one day, the thunderer had said with a voice as soft as velvet and as sad as the one of a weeping widow, he would be let out of his cell for good, if he had proven himself worthy of Thor's trust.  
Because his brother still loved him, Thor had repeated the words until Loki was nodding and whispering them back, and he wanted nothing more than to keep the trickster by his side, although it would only be possible once Loki had left this behind, whatever it was that was poisoning him so.  
And he had almost fallen over with the thought, which was more than he would ever have allowed himself to imagine, not only having back his senses but also leaving the wretched confinements of his cell. Thor had been the only thing holding him up, warm and solid and real, listening as Loki pleaded and begged, promising over and over that he would be good; that he's be good for Thor, a good brother, lover, slave, pet, whatever it was that the thunderer wanted him to be.

When he had finished, hoping that his words had been clear enough so that the other would be able to understand them, Thor had leaned down and kissed his forehead, like a mother soothing her child. 'Then prove it', he had said and Loki had realised what the words meant before his brother could even close his mouth again, clinging to Thor's clothes and body as he stood up, stepping out of the cell again and leaving the trickster behind in the darkness, tears still splashing onto the ground. There was no smell, no sound left, and the moment the door was shut behind his brother's retreating form, his body stopped existing once more.

Whatever had been left of the old Loki had vanished that day too, everything but a few shreds of thought and memory replaced with a new, better version of the trickster; one who knew his place and purpose and most importantly, knew himself. And there, in the darkness with Thor's smile still burning brightly in his mind, he swore that he would become better, so good that Thor would never need to punish him again.

He kept his promise, up until this day. Still enveloped in darkness, he barely dares to move, to think, always afraid he will somehow upset Thor. No more scratching, no screaming and no banging his head against the wall, only silence as he wonders how much of himself he has to lose to please his brother.  
All of it, most likely, Loki figures (and he clings to the name he has been given, clings to it because he can still hear the echoes of Thor's voice saying it, screaming, whispering, moaning it) but even that sounds good, sounds alright if it means that his brother will be pleased.  
For if Loki is good, Thor will smile and maybe stroke his hair, will whisper in his ear and maybe, just maybe, if Loki is beyond good, if Loki is perfect, he'll give him something back. His taste, maybe, for by now he has forgotten even the way his own blood tasted what seemed an eternity ago, or maybe, maybe if he was even beyond perfect, if he was as good as Thor is himself, maybe his sense of touch. Loki can't even _imagine_ how that would feel, if he could walk around and feel the cold stone under his feet, the air against his skin and his own hair brushing over his shoulders; there are distant memories of feeling, yes, but they are either pain or Thor and while he adores them and holds them as close to his heart as possible, he knows that there has to be so much more and although he knows he shouldn't, he wants all of it.

It feels as if it has been at least months since Thor last had his guards fetch him, and yet it could have been mere days as far as Loki knows, for in here everything blurs together, not only because there is neither night nor day, but also because there are no sounds of footsteps, no rainfall or wind to give him something to hold on to; the speed of his own thoughts as unreliable as Loki used to be himself. There is nothing he wants more than to be allowed out of his cell, back into the light and to Thor and the sound of a rushing stream, and still part of him fears the next time he'll be called to see his brother, both because he might be sent back with less than he has now and because, no matter how wonderful the few minutes, hours are he is allowed to spend in the brightly lit throne room, the knowledge that he'll be thrown back into his cell again is always there, lurking in the back of his head.

But still, his fears don't matter, his hopes, because there is nothing he could _do_. And although it should frighten, anger, destroy him, make him feel hopeless at the very least, it sets Loki free.  
After all, none of the decisions he has made in the past has been the right one, while Thor seems to always know what is to be done without thinking. And maybe, if Loki lets him, his brother will make him better.  
It's what he tells himself as he shuffles back until he hopes that he is pressed against a wall, arranges his limbs until he hopes he's curled up around himself. Why it's most comfortable to stay like this is something Loki can't quite answer, but part of his twisted, dangerous mind thinks it's because like this he takes up as little space as possible and since he's gone through his life believing himself greater than others this has to be a good thing. Without a conscious effort, his thoughts wander back to memories (after all, there is so little else left of him) and although he shouldn't, he wishes his hands, his fingers back, if only to bite them open once more.

And time passes, seconds, minutes, days in which Loki drifts in and out of sleep without noticing, because they all look and feel the same. But then something changes, all of a sudden, and Loki jolts, eyes wide open because there is a small ray of light reaching into his darkness, soft and golden, and although there is no way he could know, he is certain that there are tears running down his face again.

There is nothing Loki wants more than to scramble forwards, to take in every bit of it, but there has been no order, no call of his name, and so he stays right where he is and watches the crack in the door widen, more and more light pouring into the cell until it reaches his feet, travels up his legs and Loki can almost feel it on his skin. It's beautiful.

Only when the light reaches his damaged hands, he has to look away for a moment or two, only sees a mess of torn flesh, ghostly-pale scar tissue and red gashes, between it the glimmer of white bone, before he can concentrate on the dull-coloured rags which his clothes turned to.  
It takes far too long until the blurred shapes in front of him grow into people, some he has known in another life, some he has never seen before and some he has forgotten. The release of Asgard's fallen prince is always an event, Loki knows that, but instead of snarling at the audience like he had done before, he ignores them, instead lets the guards drag him up and outside, the light almost blinding him in its brightness.  
He's dizzy and weak, but there are hands holding him up, almost carrying him through the vast halls of the palace. It should be humiliating, but it gives Loki more time, more strength to spend on looking around and by the Norns, he does not care.  
It is the strangest thing, to finally be able to distinguish if it's seconds which pass or more, and yet the walk to the throne room feels too long and yet not long enough. 

Nothing could ever prepare him for the moment when he first sets foot into the hall which is filled with his brother's –his saviour's- presence, just like nothing would have been able to the first few times. Even before he broke, the sheer power Thor seems to radiate now more than ever almost took his breath away, but now it's almost more than he's able to take. For the god of thunder is now more of a king than even Odin Allfather ever was, with golden hair instead of a crown, broad shoulders and strong arms, blue eyes which can destroy in a second as well as build anew. And it seems as if Thor's every breath is filled with thunder, with lightning, crackling over his knuckles and down to his fingertips, accompanying every word from his lips.  
Never will Loki know just how he could believe to hate him.

There is always a short second when Thor sets eyes upon him in which Loki isn't sure if his brother will not see too much wickedness in his wrecked body, his posture, his heart this time, but after a fleeting moment in which pain seems to overtake Thor (Loki hides his hands behind his back; it is best not to remember his king of what he has done to himself) a smile stretches his lips and Loki can feel his chest swell with relief. The guards do not move and so he stays as well, until Thor beckons him closer, and Loki stumbles forward with weak knees and an aching heart, falling down in front of the vast throne, eyes fixed to the ground.

If it is another form of submission or just his body refusing to support him any longer, Loki does not know, but it hardly matters, because no matter if is both or none of them, Thor is not pleased and suddenly, Loki is shaking. How he can know about his brother's discontent is another mystery, but something in the air changes and makes his insides crawl with terror.  
It only lasts a second before growing worse, for Thor stands up, something he only does to punish or soothe, and no matter how much Loki would like to hope, he can't think of a thing he has done to deserve a reward. And yet, the expected blow never comes, even if Loki stays kneeling, broken and defeated and in the knowledge that he will pay every bit of penance willingly for he surely deserves that and much more.  
Instead there is a pause before the feet in his vision walk closer, and then a touch (_a touch,_ his mind sings, screams, celebrates and commits every moment to memory). It is only two fingers underneath his chin, forcing his head back ever so gently, but it feels so good Loki almost forgets to breathe.

He follows the unspoken command without a second's hesitation, even if lifting his gaze means looking directly at his brother, which, once more, is almost too much for him to take, because every eyelash, every inch of skin, every remainder of the smile the other has worn before is making it so painfully obvious how unworthy he is, and has always been, of his brother's attention.  
Thor pretends not to notice though, only musters him with clear, blue eyes as if there is a truth hidden in Loki's hollow cheeks and cracked lips he has yet to find. "Can you not stand?", he asks and it takes a moment for Loki to realise that he cannot only see the thunderer's lips moving, but can hear the words as well. If the tears have ever stopped, they are coming back now, and twice as many.  
Thor's voice is too kind, too soft to be directed at someone as Loki, but he takes it in anyway, shakes his head because he cannot trust his words.  
For a moment, he fears that the answer given has been the wrong one, but then the flare of anger in his brother's eyes fades without a trace and only leaves something Loki believes to be sadness and maybe a hint of affection in between. And then there are two arms around him, strong and solid and real, picking him up and still weeping openly, Loki can't do anything but inch as close as possible to Thor's chest, press his ear against it and listen for the beat of his brother's heart.

When he notices where it is the other has carried him to, it's his own heart which almost stops for a moment, for when he turns he can overlook the room he was just kneeling in, held steady and close on Thor's lap on the throne. He almost doubles over, and he must have made a noise –a scream, a gasp, he does not know- for Thor moves a hand so he can press a calloused, warm, solid finger against his lips. "Hush, now. There is nothing to be afraid of."  
The words are meant as reassurance, to soothe him, but they hardly have any effect at all, for Loki can see his chest rising rapidly, his fingers, before he thinks to hide them once more, shaking.  
He's hideous, disgusting, vile, and yet Thor is holding him like one would cradle a dear child, looks at him as if he was worth something, and it's too much at once.

How he has forgotten about the intensity Thor always has possessed, he doesn't know, but it overwhelms him once again, the strength of his brother's feelings as unexpected as always, his own devotion known, but not like this, either. Even though there is a world now he could see, if not feel and touch and smell, it melts away easily to leave only room for Thor; and even if he should regret that there is no chance to take in anything else, it's far from that. There is only Thor and that is how it is supposed to be, for nothing matters except for the thunderer, not other people, not the world, and least of all, Loki himself.  
And maybe it's because of that, that the next thing comes so naturally, without a thought or hesitation. Still shaking, and with his vision still blurred, he leans forward and presses his too dry lips against Thor's cheek in a weak gesture which still means everything.  
Loki has not got anything left to give, nothing but what is still left of himself –a battered frame and an even more fractured mind- but he gives all that and Thor understands. He has to, because without his ears to guide him, the trickster has lost his silver tongue, the only sounds still coming from his lips jumbled, useless syllables.

And he does, because his brother is and has always been the one able to read him best.  
There are no words spoken, but the smile on Thor's lips is enough to let Loki knows his message has been received and accepted.  
The shaking has stopped, he notes at the back of his mind and even if it means nothing to Loki, his brother seems pleased and that is all that matters. Strong arms tighten around him, and Loki still marvels at the feeling of fabric sliding over his skin, muscles flexing and blood pulsing.

"How have you been?", Thor asks and although it sounds like such an innocent question, the trickster knows it's all but that, because it's less about how he had been coping these last weeks, months, but about what he has done, to himself, or in his mind, to others. For a second, his lips part and the words are pushing against his lips from within, until he remembers that his voice has been rendered useless so long ago. So instead, he nods his head, trying to indicate that he's been good, so, so good, maybe even good enough to deserve a reward, his sense of smell, of touch.  
There is a pause which is both dreadful and filled with hope before Thor moves his hand to circle around frail wrists and tugs gently, murmuring, "Let me see."

Loki doesn't want to, wants to keep them far from anyone's sight, because his hands which used to be so elegant, so clever, are now just ruins which look so much like Loki imagines his soul to appear, if he's got one. But he can't refuse his brother anything at all, and so he watches helplessly as Thor pulls them from the folds of torn fabric he has been hiding them between, takes them in his large, hands and studies every inch of battered flesh and bone as if Loki's fingers were not revolting, but as long and perfect as they used to be.

The warmth against his torn skin feels strange, both painful and blissful at the same time, and without a conscious command, his fingers try to curl up to hide at least the worst damage. Or would, if his brother would let them.  
He doesn't instead keeps them spread and open, trails with his own fingertips over the marks Loki's teeth and nails have left. It's hard to decide where to look, at Thor's face and away, away from their fingers, or at them to wonder how the thunderer can touch something so ruinous without flinching, and away, away from the disgust surely mirrored in Thor's face. In the end, he does neither, instead just stares ahead without having his eyes fixed on anything at all, only feeling. It takes an eternity until the small touches stop and Loki is not sure if he misses them or is glad for them to be gone; maybe it's a bit of both, maybe neither.

Thor shifts beneath him, as if he was getting ready and for one, short moment Loki wishes that the other was speechless just like he is, because there is no way Thor can be pleased about this, about what he did and hearing it spoken out-loud might just kill him. But it's just for a moment, it really is, because it isn't true, because it would be a horrible thing to wish for (and Loki's nails are itching to bury themselves into his flesh again, try and make himself feel and suffer for even thinking these things) and because he'd never wish for Thor's voice to be gone, not when it's the one thing he had been wishing to hear for so many hours locked away in a cell deep down underneath the castle.  
Even so, Loki can't look anywhere at all, waits and fears and hopes, but for long, long moments his brother doesn't do anything but hold him; if he is thinking or just waiting as well, Loki doesn't dare to say.

And he knows he shouldn't, because it's not his place to demand something, but instead Thor's to grant, and still he can't help but lean in a little, just to feel a little more, and be it just the brush of the other's forearms against his chest, his hip.  
He must have made a sound, because suddenly there are hands on his hips and Loki can't help but look, search for Thor's eyes and again and find them too blue, too bright, too soft.  
"Does that feel good?"  
Thor's voice is even softer than his eyes are and Loki relishes every syllable, because he can't have been too bad, not when his brother is talking to him like this, keeping broad, strong fingers on his hips, and maybe, maybe, Thor will reward him, if he continues to be good.

He nods, slowly and wishes he could still trust his voice, his silver tongue, so he could tell his brother just how good it feels, how much he relishes in every touch, how he keeps them stored away at the brightest, safest place of his dark and dangerous mind and uses them as guiding lights, reminding him of why he needs to be good, why he needs to please.  
Thor's arms tighten around him, and Loki wonders if, had he still magic flowing through him, he could vanish like this, seep into Thor's skin and body and mind and lose himself in the other. It's good he doesn't even have the skills to try, though, because if he could, he wouldn't be able to stop himself, even if it meant sullying Thor and his pure, golden heart.  
Maybe he is still making noises in the back of his throat, he doesn't know, but what he is certain of are the sounds Thor makes, a soft humming, breaths and a heartbeat and Loki leans in further without noticing.  
If he could die, he'd like to do it now, with Thor all around him, Thor to catch him and hold him close and be the last thing Loki sees before closing his eyes for the last time.

And then, after a second or an hour, Loki doesn't know, the arms around his waist are loosening, then pulling away, and when Loki looks down, he sees that there are tears dripping down on Thor's skin; tears which he knows he couldn't stop even if he wanted to, because Thor pulling away always means the same terrible thing, that he is being sent back, that these few sweet, cherished moments are over and he'll go back to darkness and silence, and Loki is not sure if he can bear it another time.  
Again he wishes for his voice, because with it, he could at least beg, could plead, while now he has to sit and watch, wait.  
Thor is making soft sounds against his cheek, and Loki can feel the vibrations and imagines his brother's breath brushing over his skin, but although he was so sure of it, Thor doesn't push him off, nor carries him back to his cell, instead his hands slide down, first to his thighs, then between them, and when Loki makes a sound this time, it's a scream, he knows it although he can neither hear it nor feel his lips parting and stretching to let it out.

Thor is cupping him through his torn and tattered breeches, hardly even a touch, but Loki has forgotten how this feels, the pressure and the pleasure and the rush and it is enough to have him trembling in his brother's arms. He's moving back against the touch, at least as much as he still can with most of his muscles having forgotten how it is to contract a few eternities ago, his head falling back against his brother's chest and just resting there because Loki is not strong enough to keep it upright anymore.  
The other is still humming softly, squeezing slightly harder and Loki forgets how to breathe.

All blood pulsing through his body seems to be flowing downward, making his cock harden in his breeches and Loki can't believe that Thor hasn't pulled his hand away yet. He almost wants to beg his brother to do it, because he cannot soil Thor's strong, broad hands with his seed, can't make his brother do this, can't degrade him this way, but he can't and even if he still had a voice waiting to be used, he couldn't, because it feels too good, because Thor is pressing soft kisses on his neck, light and fleeting touches of his brother's lips which feel almost as good as the hand which has once again increased the pressure on his cock, rubbing circles and strange patterns over clothed flesh and skin and Loki feels as if he was on fire.

His disgusting, disfigured hands are uselessly clutching at Thor's arms on instinct, drawing him closer and wordlessly begging for more, more, more and his brother keeps on giving.

It is the strangest kind of sensation, pure and hot and liquid pleasure coursing through his body alongside his blood, filling him up to the brim until Loki is sure every non-feeling muscle in his body is tensed up and ready to let go.  
And let go he does after just a few moment of this, completely and utterly, in a way which makes his mind go blank for the first time in what feels like years and it's the best feeling in the world, because there are no thoughts, no feelings or regrets, no guilt, just pleasure, just the feeling of Thor's hand pressed against his cock, the sound of the other's voice, his heartbeat, the smell of his skin.  
It is paradise, Elysium, heaven, Valhalla, all of it combined, and Loki has never hated anything as much as he hates himself for coming back to this world as his orgasm fades, the aftershocks leaving him trembling on Thor's lap. His brother holds him close and Loki loves him as much as he hates himself.

Thor has stopped humming, Loki realises only a few moments later, when his head has cleared itself of the pleasant, sweet haze his release has brought with it and he misses the sound immediately, misses the pretence of safety it created around them.  
Instead if his voice, it's Thor's hands which hold him safe now and he leans into the touch when his brother moves his hand up to his face, gently cups it and strokes a wonderfully calloused, broad thumb across his cheekbone as if collecting tears which have gathered there. He only notices that it's exactly what his brother is doing when Thor looks at him with eyes that hold all the sadness, all the love in the world.  
"There is no reason for tears. You've been so good, brother", Thor says and Loki can feel his heart swelling with pride, with joy, with hope. _You've been so good, brother_, it echoes in his head and he lets his eyes linger on Thor a little longer than he usually would dare to, still blinded by the light, blinded by his king's presence. Maybe it means that he won't go back ,if he has just been good enough, that he will see and feel and smell again, that he will have things to focus on which are not himself, not his mind or his body or his past, maybe, just maybe he'll be allowed to stay with Thor.

His eyes flutter shut again, hiding the excitement rushing though his body all of a sudden at the thought, because being outside always makes him more hopeful, but Thor makes him open them again with a few soft words.

Thor is still looking at him, and Loki can't hold his gaze, instead looks at his brother's lips, the way they curve, the rosy colour, how they stretch and curl when Thor is speaking. Because he repeats, "You've been so good", and Loki feels light-headed with hope, because he's been good, he's been good_, he's been good_.

"If you stay like this, stay as good as this, I will be able to keep you here with me soon, brother", Thor continues and all the hope and joy vanishes in an instant, leaving Loki empty and desperate and cold once more. It feels like a punch to his chest, or it would if Loki could feel these things, but there is nothing of the sweetness of physical pain, only desperation, only shame and the knowledge that he has failed again.  
He is still watching Thor's lips and can't look away, not even when he is sure that there are tears streaming down his face freely, his ugly, broken voice choking out sob after sob. His brother's eyes, if he could see them, would look pained, Loki knows that and for a millisecond, he is grateful for not being able to look at them, since he isn't sure if he could stand it, seeing Thor disappointed, upset, sad, knowing that he, once again, is the cause of it.

He should be silent and strong, accept his brother's decision without more than a nod, because if Thor thinks that he is not ready, that he hasn't repented enough until now, then surely he isn't, hasn't, because Thor's decisions are the right ones. Always are.  
And he tries, tries to keep his breaths from coming out in gasps, his hands from clutching to his brother's sleeves, but it's no use; proof that Thor knows him better than he does himself, since if Loki had learnt his lesson, he'd be better now.

But even thinking that, knowing that, makes no difference, because everything he can think of is the darkness, the lack of sound and the burning need to just feel, hear, see something, anything at all, which he knows will come the moment the guards shut the door behind him. And along with it, there will be the voices in his head, the terrible thoughts he still has sometimes, of death and destruction and chaos, because while he has Thor to concentrate on here, back in his cell, there is nothing but himself.

If he is glad for his voice being close to gone or if he mourns the fact, Loki is not sure, because his lips are spilling plea after plea, or are at least trying to.

When he finally looks up because he needs to make the most of the few moments he will still be granted this, Thor's eyes look as sad as he has known they would, filled with pain and sorrow and a hint of longing so all-encompassing that Loki feels them resonating in his bones, in his mind and soul, his heart which is so much smaller, holds so much less, finally mixing with his own despair.

"I am sorry, brother", Thor says softly and his voice is as sad as his eyes are and Loki wants nothing more than to tell him that it's not his fault, that it's never his fault, that it's all his own doing, but his voice is useless for that as much as it is for begging and so he just looks at Thor, tries to use his eyes for what his tongue cannot accomplish. His hands are still touching, still clutching, feeling fabric and beneath the tunic, heat and the flex of muscles and Thor's heartbeat and Loki can't bear to look at them, but he cannot pull them back either.  
He tries, but to no avail; while his legs are too weak to keep him up, his fingers are too strong to force them to let go.

Thor is stronger still, stronger than Loki could ever hope to be, and so when his brother raises a hand and gently starts prying the remains of his fingers from his clothes, it doesn't seem to take him any strength at all and Loki is not surprised at all.  
"I'm sorry", his brother repeats and Loki watches one finger after another let go and curl into a fist, hiding them once more and although he misses the touch, misses the feeling more than he ever thought would be possible, he is still glad that Thor does not have to look at them any longer.  
Instead of clutching at the other's sleeves, Loki falls forward, presses his tear-stained tears against Thor's chest, flattening his thin, haggard body to maximize the contact, hands cradled to his chest to keep them out of sight.

He expects Thor to call the guards to take him away again and he dreads that moment, but there are no words spoken, instead Thor shifts his arms around him, holds on tighter and Loki knows he is still crying by the way the other's thumb comes up to brush away tears from his cheeks.  
It's a reflex, to blink and Loki is sure he has done it a hundred times before since the door to his cell was cracked open, but it's only now he notices the hint of darkness when his lids close and even that is enough for a particularly violent sob to rip through his body.  
And he forces his eyes open, as wide as possible and fixes his gaze on a pillar close by, promises himself not to let them close again so he won't use even a millisecond of this.

Loki keeps his eyes where they are, taking in the golden shimmer the light lends to the light marble the pillar is made of, the ornaments and the smoothness of the surface, but then his whole world shifts and moves, because Thor has gotten up with Loki still in his arms.  
And he cries, eyes still wide open and tries his best to take in every detail, to remember it, because it is perfect, Thor's arms strong and warm around him, his chest solid and his heartbeat against Loki's cheek; he cannot remember feeling so safe before in his life.

With the pillar moving away at a far too rapid speed, Loki finds another place to settle his gaze on to prevent himself from blinking, Thor's arm hooked under his legs to keep him steady covered in dark red fabric and it's only now that Loki notices that his brother hasn't put on his armour.  
It shouldn't be so important, or maybe it should be even more important because Thor never takes off his armour in public, and surely didn't start to do it regularly now that he is king of Asgard, which means that Loki is the reason for it, Loki and Thor's knowledge that otherwise, he wouldn't be able to feel a thing.  
If he wasn't crying already, he would be now.

The walk back to his cell takes only a blink of an eye, or at least that is what it feels like, because Loki is drowning in colours and sounds and the feeling of Thor's hands and because with every step the other takes, his desperation is intensifying, clawing at his chest and rising in his throat, making it almost impossible to breathe.  
He has started to plead again, most likely useless sounds tumbling and spilling from his lips without Loki even trying to stop them, partly because he knows that his mouth won't obey, partly because he wants to plead, wants to beg and wants to make Thor let him stay outside for just a minute longer, a second, no matter what it is his brain tells him.  
Still, he doesn't cling to Thor, not anymore, not since his brother has pried his fingers from where they were clutching at his clothes before, no matter how much he yearns to do so.

But then they reach the door and Loki feels his throat closing up, his breath coming in sobs and screams and pleas, a mad, overarching desperation taking hold of him and drowning him until there are no thoughts left, nothing but sheer and raw panic.  
His fingers may be breaking again, the bones splintering and the sinews and pieces of flesh holding them together tearing and ripping apart but Loki doesn't care, he'd break every single one himself again if it would mean not having to sink back into the darkness his brother has just allowed him to escape from, even if he could feel pain. _Especially_ if he could feel pain.

In the end, it doesn't matter, it doesn't help, because Loki is weak and Thor is so, so strong, setting him down on the floor which might be cold, might be warm, might be hard or might be soft, but is definitely familiar, allows Loki to cling to his form for a little longer, tears still streaming down his face and letting Thor blur against the light shining through the door, golden and perfect.  
It can't last and he knows it, because Thor is the king of Asgard, a famed warrior and too important to spend his days with taking care of his wretched brother who half of the city wants to see dead and the other half has forgotten about, and because Loki isn't worth Thor's attention. So his brother pries his hands off his shirt once again, but for every finger he is loosening, Loki curls another around the material, until Thor pulls back and he can see the stern, disappointed look even through the veil of his tears.

"Loki", he says, just that, just his name, and yet Loki understands, and somehow manages to obey as well, not letting go but letting Thor remove his fingers. A part of him is still amazed that his brother would still touch them, especially with such care and gentleness.  
Again, it doesn't take even close to long enough until Thor is finished, holding Loki's hands in his own, strong, broad fingers radiating warmth and for a few moments, they are the most important, best-loved part of his body Loki has, because Thor is touching them, holding them, because they can feel the callouses on his brother's fingertips and the slight variations of pressure.  
A thumb runs across his knuckles, traces a vein on the back of his hand and then Thor extends his hands with Loki's still in them, leaves them resting against his chest when moves one hand up to cup Loki's cheek. He leans into the touch, not even thinking, nuzzling Thor's palm and it's only when his lips brush over warm skin that Loki notices he is still pleading for Thor to change his mind.

"Be good, brother", Thor whispers and Loki just knows that those words are spoken so softly, so quietly because they are only for him and no one else, and that makes them even more special than they would be anyway. He wants to tell Thor that he loves him, more than anything he has ever known or felt, but although he tries, Loki doubts that his brother can make sense of his jumbled, confused syllables, drowned in sobs and gasps.  
But only a few moments later, that doesn't matter anymore, nothing matters, not even the darkness, because Thor is leaning in, his hand still cupping Loki's face, and brushes their lips together, almost as if asking for permission, for forgiveness and although he knows, he shouldn't, Loki falls forward until it's a kiss.

Thor's lips are soft and gentle, warm against his chapped, dry ones and Loki doesn't even dare to move, instead lets Thor kiss him until the other draws back, Loki moving forwards for a second as if chasing what is left of the touch. He licks his lips, even though it does not change a thing, concentrates on the palm on his cheek again.  
"Be good", Thor repeats and Loki stores the sound away right next to the taste of mead and Idunn's apples, the sound of thunder. "Be good _for me_."

The addition makes them more powerful still and Loki can feel his body shaking harder, his sight growing fuzzier and fuzzier as more tears come because this is the end, he knows it and still can't bear it.  
His lips are still moving, still begging because it's the only thing left to do and Loki is trying to somehow cling to his brother as the other slowly gets up, one hand still touching Loki's cheek, until he lets it fall to his side once more and Loki is without feeling again. Pride was one of the first things he has lost here, had to lose to be better, and so he tries to somehow inch forward, closer to Thor, closer to the light and the door and the whole nine worlds lying beneath it, but his limbs are too weak to carry him more than a few metres before giving out, letting him collapse on the floor which he still can't feel.

His brother is still watching him, although he has moved away, standing on the other side of the door and Loki can't see more than the splash of red, the golden halo that is Thor's hair and he reaches out but can't touch.

The door closes slowly, the rays of golden light coming through it growing less and less until there is only a crack, a few centimetres. He doesn't even try to move anymore, only curses himself for every time he blinked, for every opportunity he missed, for everything which has made him who he is and takes in the last, few, precious milliseconds before the guards shut the door completely, sealing him off once more.  
And Loki might be crying, might be screaming, he isn't sure, because everything is dark and a small part of Loki's mind is trying not to think about revenge.


End file.
